


Taming the Spider

by st_crispins



Series: St. Crispin's Day Society [Mature audiences] [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Bondage, Sex, Sex Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 08:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13632102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_crispins/pseuds/st_crispins
Summary: A sequel to "Romancing the Spider." Angelique has a very special and unusual request for Napoleon.Against his better judgment, Solo now sat back to consider her request as soberly as possible with several drinks and a half bottle of wine in him. He could just hear Illya’s words echoing in his head from around the time of his last rendezvous with Angelique:"You do know that the female mantis bites the head off her mate during copulation, don’t you?""And what does this etymology lesson have to do with me?""Just be careful that you don’t return headless as well as tieless, my friend."





	Taming the Spider

 

**_Monte Carlo, November, 1966._ **

          The question came out of nowhere: “You would consider us friends, now wouldn’t you, Napoleon darling?”

          Solo’s ears pricked to attention without appearing to do so. _Uh-oh_ , he thought. And the night had been going so well, too. Here they were in Monte Carlo, at Le Grill on the eighth floor rooftop of L’Hôtel de Paris, at a lovely table for two beside a window that offered a spectacular floor-to-ceiling view of Old Monaco’s fairy-lit harbor. Earlier that evening they’d spent several pleasant hours in the Salle Médecin, the east wing of the grand Casino, where Solo had won some two thousand dollars playing Chemin de Fer. Afterward, they’d shared a late supper — grilled veal with black truffle for him and salmon for her — topped off with wine ordered from the finest list on the entire Rivera that had cost a good portion of his winnings.

          And now, after much food and even more alcohol, Solo was feeling relaxed and satiated, with his guard lowered to his metaphoric ankles and Angelique was leaning toward him and asking a mite too casually if they were friends.

          _Jesus._

          “Ah — yeah, yes. I suppose so. After a fashion.”

          It wasn’t the best answer, but apparently, it was good enough. Angelique smiled enigmatically, her slitted cat’s eyes glittering in the candlelight.

          Solo knew that his U.N.C.L.E. colleagues wondered what he and the notorious Thrush woman did together during their non-working hours when they weren’t trying to eliminate each other deliberately, his partner foremost among the speculators. Well, they did the things that normal people do. They played together, ate together, and often went to bed together. For the last activity, however, Angelique always insisted on one prerequisite: that her sexual partner, whoever it was, be kept at some sort of physical disadvantage.

So, in their surprisingly long-enduring relationship, she’d drugged him prophylactically a few times and very nearly poisoned him on at least one occasion — accidentally, he preferred to believe, but with Angelique, one never knew for sure. Mostly, she merely required that he make love to her with one hand tied behind his back. Literally. Or fastened to a bedpost. Sometimes two hands if she was in a certain mood, but usually, it was just one.

          For his part, Solo graciously accommodated her, not only because she was, to put it bluntly, one of the best lays he’d ever encountered, but because he understood her insecurities and her need for control. As one of Thrush’s most accomplished and effective agents, Angelique was in a very dangerous position, surrounded by very dangerous people. When one swam with sharks, one couldn’t take chances, and so she never did. With anyone. Even him. Because truth be told, he had a bit of shark’s blood running through his veins as well. Which, he knew, made him attractive to her.

          And so he always came prepared, with antidotes hidden in his pockets and various escape devices stuffed up his sleeves — just in case — and she knew that he knew that she knew that he knew they were playing an elaborate game to preserve her dignity and mental well-being. His own dignity and mental well-being were left to fend for themselves.

          “Light me,” she said, holding up a cigarette, and he did, pocketing his lighter afterward. She took a thoughtful puff and let out a long stream of blue smoke. “I need a favor.”

          “Oh?” Solo asked as he sipped his coffee and made a note to ask the waiter for a refill. He strongly suspected he was going to need all the caffeine he could pump into his system. “What sort of favor?”

          Again, she hesitated, as if it were terribly important that she gather the right words together and deliver them in just the right way. “There’s a Thrush VIP coming into town shortly —”

          “For the fencing tournament?”

          Angelique nodded. It had to be the tournament. There was nothing else going on in the tiny principality of Monaco that month. It was the off-season, too late for the vacationing jetsetters and too early for the culture buffs and racing car enthusiasts. Even the chefs went on holiday in November, and only in the very best establishments could one still be sure of getting a decent meal.

          “And I think he’s going to want to take me to bed.”

          “Can’t you refuse?”

          “He’s a Council member —”

          Solo whistled low, impressed. One didn’t run across members of Thrush’s Supreme Council very often. He noted she didn’t name the man in question, and Solo didn’t expect her to.

          “— and as for refusing, well, it just isn’t done.”

          “Even if it was that time of month?”

          She bristled, exasperated by his apparent naiveté. “Darling, even if I was hemorrhaging out of every orifice I possess.”

          “Sorry,” Solo apologized. He had no desire to annoy her. He signaled a passing server for more coffee, and Angelique waited for them to be alone again before she continued.

“Actually, I envy your little girl colleague.”

          “April?”

          “Mmmm. She doesn’t have to screw her superiors just to maintain her status.”

          “True,” Solo allowed. He had no intention of telling Angelique that he’d just recently relieved April of her virginity in London. But that had been at April’s request, so it couldn’t be equated. “We promote strictly on merit.”

          “We do, too. It’s just that our merit is determined by different standards.”

          Solo sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette for himself. “Forgive me, but I don’t see what the problem is. You’re —”

          “Loose?”

          Solo smiled, refusing to take the bait. He could see she was tense and not herself tonight. Something was indeed worrying her. “No, _ma_ _cherie_. I was going to say you’re an experienced and very desirable woman of the world. I can attest to that, personally. There’s no need for performance anxiety.”

          “That’s not it,” she admitted with a helpless sigh. Her bosom heaved against the deep purple velvet of her low cut evening dress, attracting Solo’s gaze despite his best intentions. “I’ve heard this, this Council member, has certain proclivities, certain tastes.”

          “Oh?” Solo could just imagine. At least half of the Thrush chiefs were bona fide sadists. “Well, a little rough sex with a stranger has never ruffled you before. If I remember correctly, last year you tied up my partner rather securely, not to mention scaring the hell out of him.”

          Angelique giggled in spite of herself. “He told you about that?”

          “He asked me to put his ruined tie on my expense account. I guessed the rest.”

          “Well, that was a dirty trick you played on me. Using him to use me to bring down Max Caldecott.”

          Solo shrugged. “It worked, and you received your promotion. No harm done except, perhaps, to Illya’s pride.”

         “It was his own fault,” Angelique replied, unrepentant. “He’s not very imaginative — not like us, darling.”

          Solo made a sound deep in his throat.       

          “In any event, this is likely to be quite different. The Council member prefers his women more, shall we say, passive. Compliant.”

          “Submissive?”

          “Yes, exactly.”

          “I can see your problem,” Solo said sympathetically. Obviously, this was one sexual partner of Angelique’s who was not going to be tethered to anything. Indeed, he was going to be the one doing the tethering. Solo turned serious. “Are you really afraid of what he might do to you?”

          “Not in the sense you’re implying.” She regarded him, surprised and genuinely touched by his concern. It had never occurred to her that he might actually care about her. She filed it away as a weakness that could be productively exploited in the future; but still, it was nice to see. “As you so perceptively observed, I do have experience, and I can take care of myself. But I don’t know how aggressive this guy will be, and I fear I will react poorly, or at least, inappropriately. A great deal may depend upon how receptive I am to his ... err ... choices.” She took a breath. “So, Napoleon dear, I’d like to practice. With you.”

          “ _Me_?” Solo blinked and retreated to his coffee cup.

          “Don’t be so shocked. You should be flattered.”

          “Ah — I am,” Solo agreed, trying not to betray his misgivings. “Flattered, that is.” This was certainly shaping up to be a red-letter season. First, April and her inconvenient virginity, and now Angelique and her peculiar problem. He was beginning to wonder just what the hell his reputation really was.

          “I trust you, my darling,” Angelique said softly. She reached across the table and grasped his hand. “You’re the only man I know whom I _can_ trust.”

          She sounded sincere, which only disconcerted and confused him more. His current assignment, just completed, was to pay a purely protocol visit to the House of Grimaldi and had absolutely nothing to do with Thrush. So there was no reason to suspect that this was all a contrivance and a means for Angelique to kill him. Still, he had to ask.

          “Is this some kind of set-up?”

          “No, of course not.” She withdrew her hand, offended. “It’s exactly what I’ve told you. And I really do need your help.”

          Against his better judgment, Solo now sat back to consider her request as soberly as possible with several drinks and a half bottle of wine in him. He could just hear Illya’s words echoing in his head from around the time of his last rendezvous with Angelique:

          _You do know that the female mantis bites the head off her mate during copulation, don’t you?_

_And what does this etymology lesson have to do with me?_

_Just be careful that you don’t return headless as well as tieless, my friend._

Angelique watched him impatiently. “So: will you do as I ask?”

“That depends upon what you’re asking. What exactly do you want me to do? I don’t enjoy hitting women —”

“Ah, that nobility again.”

“— no chains, no whips — ”

“Not even a small one?”

Solo made a face, but Angelique just laughed, light and fluttery. “Sorry, darling, just kidding. No, I’m thinking a blindfold and perhaps a scarf or two. Just something to help me work past the initial discomfort.”

Solo took his time finishing his coffee. He glanced over at the view of the harbor. It really was a splendid evening, almost too splendid to spend in a hotel room helping Angelique work through some panic reflex and God knew what else. On the other hand, an opportunity to actually get the upper hand on Angelique, even if it was with her permission, was too tempting to pass up. And the gaming tables could wait. He still had another afternoon before his plane left.

“All right,” he said finally. “I assume we’re going to do this tonight. Where?”

“I have a room here at the hotel. Where are you staying?”

“In the business district. My expense account is not as forgiving as yours.”

“My suite, then.” She scribbled down the number and passed it to him. “Say, in an hour or so.”

He nodded, pocketing the note. He appreciated the time. As soon as he got away from her, he intended to retreat to his own room, freshen his pockets with several devices, and call the local U.N.C.L.E. office to request that they open a tracking channel on his personal tracer. It was only a precaution, but with Angelique, he’d learned that an ounce of prevention was worth a day spent in the emergency room.

Standing on legs less wobbly than he expected, Solo circled the table and helped her out of her chair. As she rose, she leaned her round, voluptuous body against him and mouthed the edge of his chin. “I’ll be waiting for you,” she breathed.

“And without a stitch of clothing on,” he replied.

“Ooooh. Already giving orders. I think I’m going to enjoy seeing you take the initiative.”

Solo quirked a smile as his hand traveled discreetly down the back of her dress. “All you had to do was ask.”

***

          He returned to the hotel with minutes to spare, but he didn’t think he should rush anyway. It would send an obvious message if he kept her waiting just a tad: for once, he was calling the shots tonight.  Exiting the taxi, he slipped the driver a generous tip, then crossed the beaux arts plaza on foot, taking his time to soak up the atmosphere.

Despite the evidence found in so many popular spy movies, as an agent of U.N.C.L.E., Solo actually spent very little of his professional life in the heady, rarified environs of the super-rich. With its baroque, wedding cake buildings and luxurious-to-the-point-of-insanity accommodations, Monte Carlo fairly dripped with gilt-edge glamour. Solo enjoyed it in small doses, but after a day or two, he would always feel it all setting his teeth on edge, like a ridiculously sweet and sumptuous dessert. But he had no worry of becoming too spoiled. His job and his travels were so varied, that next week he’d probably find himself marooned on an ice floe, or searching the back alleys of a slum, or hiding out in a farmhouse without the benefit of indoor plumbing.

Or just as likely, lying in a hospital. Or the morgue. With that in mind, it was wise for one to take one’s pleasures as they came.

The lobby of the Hôtel de Paris was so full of gold, crystal, and white marble, that even at this late hour, it seemed to glow. Solo was still dressed in evening clothes and because he seemed to know where he was going, he passed the concierge station and the main desk without anyone inquiring whether he was a guest or not. The waiting elevator was empty, and the elderly operator took him to Angelique’s floor without comment.

Solo found the room easily enough. As he’d guessed, it was located in the front of the building, which meant that it would be one of the smaller units, but with a good view of the harbor. In the Hôtel de Paris, one traded space for ambience.

Angelique answered the door at his third knock.

“You’re late,” she said.

“And you still have your clothes on,” he replied following her in. His estimate about the room had been accurate. It wasn’t as sprawling as some luxury suites he’d seen there and elsewhere. The walls, drapes, and rugs were a tasteful if extravagant blend of autumnal-toned brocades. In the low light of two lamps, the room seemed almost as burnished as the lobby, except that the white marble had been replaced by cream-colored French provincial furniture. He made casual note of the fact that the bed had four posts but no canopy.

          “I thought I told you to be undressed,” he said when they halted just beyond the foot of the bed.

          “Well, _you’re_ not,” Angelique shot back, a little piqued.

          “That’s the idea.” He took her into his arms and clucked his tongue against his teeth. “Really, love, you don’t follow orders very well. That Council member is not going to be happy.” Then, tempering his tone, he added more gently, “But of course, if you’re not feeling up to this, then —”

          “No, no, you’re right.” She sighed, shaking her head. Solo leaned in to kiss her deep and hard, forcing his tongue between her teeth, and as he did, he took her hands in his and pinned them firmly behind her back. He felt her tense, and then force herself to relax in his imprisoning embrace. As the kiss ended and he released her, Angelique groaned. “I think I need a drink.”

          Solo couldn’t help but chuckle. He slipped off his tux jacket, pulled off his tie, and undid the buttons of his shirt. Carefully, he dropped the lethal onyx studs into a secret padded pocket in his trousers that existed for just that purpose. “Any more wine around?”

          “Champagne.” She pointed to a small table where two crystal flutes and a green bottle nestled in a silver ice bucket waited.

          “All right. I’ll give you another chance. While I open the bottle, you take off your clothes.” As Solo retrieved the champagne and headed for the bathroom, he added over his shoulder, “ _All_ your clothes. Everything. Every piece of jewelry, too. When I come out, I want to see you as naked as the day you were born.”

          Inside, the bathroom was large and luxurious, decorated with more brocade and featuring dual marble sinks and a huge tub big enough for two. He made another mental note to explore the possibilities of that tub if he got the chance. On the other hand, that much water could be a problem. If he didn’t handle her properly, Angelique could always drug and drown him, and be on her way before the management discovered the mess.

          He took his time easing out the cork and was rewarded by a pop with no overflow. And that was good because the champagne was Dom Perignon ’59, and he preferred not to lose a single drop if he could help it.

          When he emerged from the bathroom, bottle in hand, Angelique was down to her garter belt and stockings. She wore no panties. When she turned to meet his gaze, he chuckled.

          “Why, darling, it’s nice to see you’re still naturally blonde somewhere.”

          But she would have none of his good humor. “Should I stop here?” she asked, indignantly. Her defiant manner couldn’t quite disguise her nervousness.

          Solo canted his head to one side, pausing to regard her, and felt a pleasant tightening in his crotch. It was certainly a temptation. The tops of her nylons and the edges of the garter belt framed her pubic area and presented a particularly inviting picture. But he knew that to Angelique, fancy lingerie was battle gear, and if he was to succeed tonight and get away with his mind and body intact, he needed to strip her of all her defenses. Besides, who knew what she had sewn into that garter belt?

          “I’m afraid not, pet. Take it all off.”

          She frowned at him, but did as she was told. As he replaced the bottle in the ice bucket, Angelique joined him at the table. Without her spike heels, she was several inches shorter than usual. “Aren’t you going to at least take off your gun?” she asked.

          “Oh. Sorry.” Solo was so accustomed to the comforting weight of his shoulder holster, he was seldom aware any more of its presence. It would be a risk to take it off, but he knew there was no avoiding that, so he peeled the leather straps from his shoulder and left his U.N.C.L.E. Special, still holstered, on a nearby chair.

          “You wouldn’t ambush me with my own gun, now, would you?” he said, not entirely sure it was a joke.

          She shrugged, regaining some of her advantage. “That depends upon how satisfied I am with your lessons.” She reached for a glass and handed it to him. “Pour.”

          He did. As the champagne bubbled, sparkly and slightly golden, Angelique studied him over the rim of her flute. “Illya likes to compare me to various insects.”

          “Oh, not really —”

          “Oh yes, Napoleon, really. I’ve overhead him talking to you about me. The black widow, the praying mantis, the scorpion, the crab spider. It’s rather insulting, you know.”

          “But somewhat apt, you must admit,” he replied, setting down the bottle. They drew close with their glasses. Angelique’s eyes hooded, and her voice turned sultry. “Is that how you see me as well?” she asked.

          Solo smiled. She was baiting him again. “No. Actually, I think sleeping with you is like eating fugu.”

          “Fugu?”

          “Japanese puffer fish. Ever try it?”

          “No. It’s toxic, isn’t it?”

          “It is, indeed. And even when a licensed chef prepares it properly, it’s always dangerous to eat. Some believe the poison, that little tingle you feel on your tongue, is an important part of the experience. The more poison, the tastier the fish. Life is sweet, goes an old Japanese saying, but not as sweet as the puffer fish.”

          “And do you believe that, Napoleon?”

          His smile remained. “I’m alone here — and currently unarmed — with you. What do _you_ think?”

          “Hmmm ...fugu. I suppose I’ll have to try that sometime.”

          He held up his glass to hers. “To new experiences.”

          She repeated the toast and watched him take a swallow. And as soon as he did, he noticed a faint oily substance that had been smeared on the inside of the glass and knew something was wrong. The mood broken, he squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath and cleared his throat, testing whether or not he still could breathe or speak. _Puffer fish, indeed._

          “Ah — Angelique,” he said, matter-of-factly, “Did you just drug me again?” _Or something worse_.

          She looked more embarrassed than triumphant. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d notice. It’s just a little something to boost your hormone levels.”

          “My hormone levels have always been just fine, thank you.”

          “I know that darling, but tonight I need your dark side. I was afraid you might not be aggressive enough.”

          “I can be aggressive.” His voice dropped to a growl. “Just _watch_.”

          “Cruel, then. I was afraid your ethics would interfere with your best intentions. You have a kind heart.”

          “And now I’m going to have a raging erection, thanks to you.” He could feel the effects already as whatever she gave him coursed through his blood stream and went straight to his groin.

          “Well, yes,” she allowed coyly, her full lips puckering with amusement. “But that’s not such a bad thing, is it?”

          “That depends upon which side of it you’re on.” Then, locking eyes with her, he deliberately drained the entire glass and licked the rim, moderation be damned. “Any second thoughts?” he asked, looming over her, his voice low and dangerous. He was angry, and he wanted her to know it.

          “No.” For the first time since they’d met long ago, Angelique looked sheepish.

          “Good. Then drink up. You’re going to need it. Foreplay’s over. Time for the main event.”

***

          “Sit there,” Solo said, pointing to the foot of the bed as he stalked across the carpet.”

          “But Napoleon—”

          “I said, _sit_!”

          So she sat, tilting her head back haughtily so he wouldn’t sense her apprehension. He did anyway, and it secretly pleased him.

          “All right. If you want to play the game, these are the house rules: you do what I tell you to do. You speak only when I tell you to speak.” He halted next to where her bare knees jutted out and leaned in close. “And you _come_ only when I tell you to come. Is that understood?”

          “Hey, now, wait a minute —”

          “Uh-uh.” He held up a warning finger. “And if you don’t behave, I’ll spank you.”

          “I thought you didn’t enjoy hitting women.”

          “I’ll make an exception in your case. Keep protesting, and I’ll require that you address me as ‘master.’”

“Over _your_ dead body!”

That made Solo laugh. “No doubt. Now, where are those damn scarves?”

          “In the bureau. Top drawer on the left.”

          He found quite a cache of them, all black, and took three to start. Sliding along the width of the bed, he knelt behind her and dropped one scarf over her eyes.

          When she balked, he reminded her, “You specifically requested a blindfold.”

          Resigned, she held still while he tied it. Afterward, he placed both hands on her shoulders, guiding her backwards. “Lie down.”

          “Why?”

          “Because I _said_ so.” As he tilted her back, he murmured in her ear, “C’mon, relax. You’re not making this easy for either one of us. Go with it.”

Again, reluctantly, she complied.

          “Now stretch out your arms.”

          “I’d rather not.” But Solo was quicker and physically stronger than she was, and he had one scarf looped around her wrist and knotted to a bedrail before she could protest further. Scooting across the mattress, he did the same to her other wrist, and after a token resistance, Angelique surrendered to the inevitable.

          “I don’t think I like you like this,” she said from behind the blindfold.

          “Too bad. You should have thought about that when you decided to screw around with my chemistry.”

Actually, despite a God-awful hard-on, he felt rather good at the moment, invigorated even. His pulse was up, his heart was thumping in his chest, and he could feel the familiar, delicious flow of adrenalin pumping through his system. He retrieved the champagne, took a swig directly from the bottle, and returned to the task at hand. In the drawer he found two longer scarves and proceeded to wrap them around her thighs, thus immobilizing her legs by attaching them to either bedpost.

          When he was finished, he stepped back to admire his work. Angelique lay on her back, her bottom resting on the edge of the mattress, her feet dangling, toes pointed to the floor. Her outstretched arms forced her ample bosom upward, and her breasts rose and fell beautifully with each breath. With her knees bent and her thighs spread wide, her sex was offered for display, totally and lusciously available.

          “I feel like I’m at a gynecologist’s office,” she muttered.

          “You won’t for long,” Solo assured her. He returned to the bureau, and Angelique could hear him rummaging through the drawers. A faint buzzing hum broke the stillness.

          “Hey, put that back!” she said, recognizing the sound.

          “Sorry. Guess you won’t be needing that tonight, since we have the real thing.”

          “Stop picking through my personal belongings.”  

“Just looking for more equipment, darling.”

          “I didn’t _bring_ more equipment.”

          “Then I suppose we’ll have to improvise.”

          A minute or two later he was back, shirtless, kneeling between her thighs. He brushed his fingertips lightly over her pubic hair and blew soft, warm air against her most sensitive skin. Angelique squirmed, enjoying the attention.

          “That feels nice.”

          *“Mmmm, I’m sure. But it would feel even nicer a little more bare.”  He dropped a dollop of shaving cream on her pubic mound, and as soon as she felt it, Angelique knew what he was preparing to do.

          “I just got an expensive wax in St. Tropez!”

          “For the bikini line. Women are so practical.” Solo shook his head. “If you want to seduce that Council member, you’ll need to stimulate his imagination. This will do it: trust me.”

          “Trust you? I’m not so sure I do any more!”

          “Shhhh... I have a sharp razor against your most tender flesh. Don’t distract me.”

          “You’re crazy.”

          “Uh-huh. A crazy man with a razor. Now, you just keep that in mind and be still.”

          Bound as she was, she really didn’t have any choice, so she endured the meticulous movements of her own shaver without further protest. When he was done, Solo again admired his work, not quite believing he’d gotten this far with her. He cleaned her up with a thick, fluffy towel from the bathroom and powdered her with her own talcum.

          “There,” he said petting her exposed nether lips. 

“Napoleon, I don’t see what —”

          But then he plunged his tongue and lips against her, and suddenly she did see all too well. Her muscles stiffened and her back arched, and when she let out a long, arcing cry, throaty with unrepressed pleasure, he knew he had her full attention. He continued the assault, varying the angle, target, and pressure until she was out of her mind with excitement and all she could possibly be thinking about was him and what he was doing to her. Soon, Angelique was gasping like a squeezebox, calling his name and demanding he finish her off.

          Taking pity on her and her predicament, Solo curved himself over her body and offered her a deep, voluptuous kiss. His erection pressed against her, seeking liberation from the confines of his trousers.

          “Your pants are still on,” she observed breathily when they came up for air. They continued to kiss as they talked.

          “Obviously.” One of his hands descended southward and slipped between her thighs to keep her interested.

          “Why don’t you take them off and fuck me?”

          “I’m not ready yet.”

          “You feel ready.”

          “I’m just getting started.”

          With his body still pinning hers to the bed, he pulled loose the loops from the bed frame that imprisoned her arms and drew her upright, the long scarves still trailing from her wrists.

          “Now, what?” she demanded.

          “I want to make some adjustments.”

          He helped Angelique to her feet and she stood awkwardly, her legs still spread wide by the scarves. He then attached one wrist to each post, kissed her hard on the mouth and then withdrew.

          Ten seconds passed. Fifteen. Twenty. “Napoleon?” Angelique called out. No answer. She called his name again, this time, a bit plaintively. “If you left me here alone, I’ll —”

         And then he was back again, embracing her immobilized body, and she could feel that he’d finally shed the last of his own clothes as well.

          “You’ll do what?” he asked, amused. “You’re not in any position to do anything right now, pet.”

          “This is very uncomfortable, you know.”

          “Yeah, I do. Now you do, too. You’ll get past it.”

          He moved against her, kissing her, traveling her body, polishing it with his hands and mouth, massaging her sex with his. There was so much activity, it felt like more than one man was arousing her. Angelique moaned and sagged against the scarves.

          “Oh God.”

          She felt his fingertips invading her again, searching for the clitoral nub and finding it. She mewed, thrusting her pelvis forward, wanting to splay her legs even further apart than they were. His thumb pressed against the nub, while his index finger ran back and forth along the slit, drawing out her moisture. In response, her body swayed and rhythmically followed his lead.

          “Ohhhh... mmmmm... oh Napoleon, darling, I forgot how good you are at this.”

          “You’re not ready to come, are you?”

          No answer.

          “ _Are you_?”

          “No,” she said finally, but he could feel her flesh beginning to pulse and knew it was a lie. When Solo withdrew his hand, she let out a long, thin keen. He clucked his tongue against his teeth in mock disapproval. “You’re forgetting the rules.”

          “Damn you and damn your _rules_!” Angelique shrieked at him in frustration, her body trembling with need, but he just laughed.

“Now, that wasn’t nice either, _darling_. I guess you’re going to need a time out.”

          And with that, Solo clipped one of her long diamond earrings to each of her nipples and a third around her nether lips.

          “What the hell are you doing?” she groaned.

          “Just something to keep your senses occupied while you ponder the error of your ways.”

          He knew the clips wouldn’t hurt, but just offer her a sort of titillating pressure. When she moved, the diamonds would wag, and she’d feel their tug even more.

“I must look like a stripper,” she complained.

          “A very _affluent_ stripper.” He regarded her again, rather liking the image before him. Then, he retreated to the champagne and took another sip, grateful for the break.

          “Napoleon, come back here!” she cried, hearing him drift away from her.

          “Not until you promise to stop telling me what to do.”

          He heard the diamonds tinkle like tiny chandeliers. “I can’t help it,” she admitted, softening her tone. This time, he could tell she was telling the truth. She sounded sad, even apologetic.

          Her words touched him. Despite all the frivolous sex play, something more serious was going on and they both understood that. Solo sighed. He returned to Angelique and untied her blindfold. Regaining the use of her sight again, she blinked several times, adjusting to the light. He fed her a sip of champagne from the undoctored glass, and as she drank, he said, “Y’know, we’re not doing very well here.” More soberly, he observed, “It doesn’t matter with me. But if you piss off your Council member, it sounds like he just might kill you. Or worse. Is that a possibility?”

          Frowning, she looked into his eyes. “Maybe.”

         “Then you were right to realize that you’re going to have to repress your natural instincts for self-preservation.”

         “But, I’m used to taking the initiative.” That, of course, was an understatement.

         Solo nodded. “I know, and it serves you well, mostly. But sometimes, one must subordinate one’s own desires in order to gain an advantage and achieve an ultimate goal. I do it all the time.” He offered her another sip, and Angelique rolled the champagne around in her mouth, thinking.

         “You even do it with that cranky Old Man.”

         Solo chuckled. “Especially with him. Sometimes, I’m sure, working for Thrush would be a whole lot easier.”

“Then why don’t you come over to our side?” Her mood lightening, she offered him a Cheshire cat grin.

“Because if I’m going to die, I want to know it was for something more than simply failing to satisfy some degenerate’s sadistic tastes.”

Angelique shrugged carelessly. “An occupational hazard.”

“Every job has them. And that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Now, what are we going to do about yours?” He cocked his head. “Your call.”

Her full lips puckered as she considered the question. “I suppose you could gag me.”

 _Well. That was certainly a change_. “Are you sure?” he asked.

Angelique nodded. “Do it.”

Replacing the champagne once again, he took the blindfold and threaded it through her lips, knotting it behind her neck, careful to make it fixed but not uncomfortable. Then, with similar care, he unclipped the three earrings.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s start again.”

***

This time it was different, and so was she. Obviously, she’d made a decision and was trying hard to follow through. When Solo began to arouse her again with his hands and mouth, tongue and fingertips, she didn’t struggle, and she didn’t resist. When he fondled her, she responded. When he pressed her, she yielded. When he invaded her, she opened, allowing him access to whatever part of her he sought.

          The novelty of her surrender, combined with whatever she’d put in his drink, fueled his own lust until he was working her relentlessly, driving her to exquisite agony. Soon, all that was between them, all that mattered, was the heat and sweat and the musk of their fevered bodies, accompanied by the small, muffled sounds she made behind the gag.

          Finally, as he sensed through his own sexual haze that she was approaching her peak, he prodded her sex with his and asked her again: “Are you ready to come?”

          This time, she nodded.

          “Will you bend to me? Let me take you from behind?”

Angelique never voluntarily turned her back on anyone. Nevertheless, she nodded again.

          “And will you come only when I tell you to?”

          For a third time, she nodded, staring at him with eyes like saucers, bright with excitement.

          He freed her legs first, and then reached up to the bedposts and unknotted the scarves that suspended her wrists. As her arms dropped, he gathered both of her hands in his and retied one of the scarves around her wrists so that they remained bound in front of her but unattached to anything else. Angelique didn’t protest. Indeed, she was so wracked with need, she didn’t seem to care at all. With her body still shaking from the effort, she climbed on the mattress lengthwise and crawled into position, raising her round, fleshy bottom and offering him her vulnerable back.

          He couldn’t believe it, and if he hadn’t been so dizzily aroused himself, he might have registered a moment of triumph. As it was, the hunger for her body overwhelmed him, and he knelt behind her, entering her without preliminaries or ceremony.

His first thrust, long and deep, was greeted with a satisfied groan; the second thrust, with a grunt that urged him to keep going. He wrapped one arm around her chest, cupping a breast, while he grasped her nether lips, burying a knuckle between them. Grateful for the pressure, Angelique began to push against his fist, matching his slow but steady rhythm.

They moved together, perfectly in sync, like dancers — long time partners who could instinctively anticipate each other’s dips and turns. Still thrusting, he began to draw her to him, backward and upward, so that, eventually, they were upright and she was perched, still impaled, in his lap. She threw her head back, bound arms arching, reaching for his neck, searching for leverage. As she braced her spine against his chest, he bent his head to her shoulder and whispered, “Come for me.”

          In response, she began to roll her hips, grinding against him, over and over again, transforming the previous back and forth movement to an oscillation. The change was just enough to launch them both into a shared climax so powerful, that they kept hold of each other, not daring to let go.

And somewhere during his descent back to reality, Solo felt something sharp and pointed slice across his right shoulder. He opened his eyes and found blood where his skin had been opened. He tore off Angelique’s gag to make certain it had still been in place and she hadn’t used her teeth on him, then grabbed her bound hands and inspected her long, perfectly manicured fingers. One of them had lost an artificial tip.

          _Oh no_ , he thought. She’d got him again.

          As he inspected the claw mark, she smiled. “Sorry, darling. Force of habit.”

          But he was not amused. “Am I going to be needing an antidote shortly?”

          “Of course not.” She turned into his shoulder and lapped delicately at the thin trail of blood. “See? Just a harmless scratch. Nothing to be concerned about.”

          Solo sighed, not quite sure whether he believed her or not, but he was feeling too drained at the moment to do much about it. If she was lying, he would know soon enough.

          He collapsed tiredly on the bed, and Angelique dropped down next to him, cuddling close. “You liked me obedient, didn’t you?”

          “Yeah, until you gave me the flesh wound.”

          “Oh, it probably won’t even scar. Think of it as a souvenir of tonight.”

          “I think I’d rather get the t-shirt.”  Solo shook his head ruefully. “You’re really something, you know that?”

          Angelique grinned, quite pleased with herself. “So are you. That’s why we’re so good together.” She held up her wrists, still bound. “How about releasing me now?”

          “Nope.”

          Angelique narrowed her eyes. “Why not?”

Unmoved by her flash of anger, Solo remained calm, even serene. He reached out an arm and draped it over her torso, running his hand leisurely along her hip.

“Because in a little while, I’m going to make love to you again, and for just this one time, I’d like to do it nice and gentle, like _normal_ people. So I’m going to take advantage of this opportunity, because once you’re free, I may never get another.”

Angelique’s pout melted into a gratified smile. She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the curve of his jaw. “Take off the scarf,” she coaxed him. “Let’s try another new experience.”

***

_New York City, U.N.C.L.E. HQ. Five days later._

          The dossier, tabbed and left open, was waiting for Napoleon Solo in his usual place at Waverly’s conference table.

          “You have before you the coroner’s report on Sebastian Troche,” Alexander Waverly declared as Solo took his seat. “Thrush Council member in charge of European counter-operations for the last twelve years.”

          Not to mention the vicious chief torturer of at least twenty U.N.C.L.E. agents, including the beloved Ben Toomey, who’d been Solo’s trainer during his first months in the field after Survival School. The agent couldn’t help but whistle.

          “Should you be taking credit for this one, Mr. Solo?”

          “I don’t know. Should I?”

Solo glanced from his superior to his partner, Illya Kuryakin, who was seated next to him, browsing through another file.

          “Troche was found dead in his room at the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo,” Kuryakin informed his partner casually, “three days after you alerted our local field office there to be on the lookout for the arrival of an unspecified Thrush Council member.” Kuryakin peered over his reading glasses. “How did you know he’d be in the city?”

          “I heard some talk connected to the fencing tournament and made an educated guess,” Solo replied. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was close enough. He turned to Waverly.

          “Did our office take him out?”

          “No, Mr. Solo. Mr. Troche was already quite dead by the time the police arrived to investigate. Assassination is not our policy in any event, even with notorious Thrush Council members.”

          “But he was still murdered, then?”

          Kuryakin took off his glasses and toyed with them thoughtfully. “The police aren’t really sure. Troche apparently died of convulsions and respiratory arrest. They found trace amounts of TTX in his blood stream, enough to paralyze the nervous system of someone of Troche’s height and weight.”

          “TTX?”

“Tetrodotoxin, Mr. Solo,” Waverly interjected. “Section Four informs me it’s a deadly poison found in the so-called puffer fish. Apparently, this fish is served in some exclusive Japanese restaurants, and some of the more reckless patrons find it a great delicacy.”

“Oh?” Solo said, playing dumb.

“Indeed. The Monte Carlo police believe Mr. Troche may have been one of those connoisseurs.”

 _I’ll just bet he was_ , Solo thought wryly.

“But here’s the curious part,” Kuryakin said, leaning over the conference table, closer to his partner. “There are no Japanese restaurants of that type in Monte Carlo.”

“None?” Solo asked, though he knew the answer.

“None,” Waverly affirmed. “But perhaps Mr. Troche traveled to another resort on the Rivera or had something sent in. High-ranking members of the Thrush hierarchy enjoy a great many absurdly extravagant privileges.” The U.N.C.L.E. chief reached for his pipe. “Oh, and there was one more thing: our office reported that another Thrush operative was seen at the hotel around the same time. One of your acquaintance, I believe ... a woman. The one who goes by the name of ‘Angelique.’ ” Waverly’s shaggy eyebrows rose, allowing the implicit question to hang in the air unanswered.

Feeling vaguely guilty, Solo avoided his superior’s steady gaze and dropped his own eyes to the dossier in front of him. The morgue photo of Troche was on top, a close-up view of the Thrush torturer’s ugly, brutish face and massive upper torso. Even deceased, the man looked scary.

“It certainly is a puzzle,” Kuryakin observed without apparent irony. “Accident or assassination — I suppose we’ll never know.”

But Solo did know, and he was absolutely certain as soon as he saw the photo. For, clearly apparent on Troche’s right shoulder, was a long scratch mark that, without a doubt, had been made by a woman’s fingernail.

***

Emerging from Del Floria’s that evening, Solo found Angelique waiting for him, standing next to her parked Corvette, wrapped against the cold in a full-length winter fox, a shiny, perfectly-formed red apple proffered in her elegantly gloved hand.

“Something for the teacher,” she said.

Solo accepted the gift and took a large, deliberate bite, prompting her to arch a well-shaped eyebrow.

“Aren’t you afraid it’s poisoned, darling?”

“You’ve already made your kill. I expect the rest of us prey are safe for a few more days.” He leaned against the car, sidling next to her. “So: was it an assignment, or just something that happened on the spur of the moment?”

“An assignment, of course. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about it. Need to know and all that. I hope you’re not offended.”

“No, I suppose not, considering whom the target turned out to be.” Solo bit into the apple again with another loud crunch.

“Troche was a beast, even for Thrush,” Angelique assured him. “It’s in the interest of both our organizations that he’s gone.” She threaded her arm through his and snuggled close. “Do you have time this evening to celebrate? I owe you a dinner at least.”

Solo shrugged. “I could always use a good meal. Where do you want to go?”

“I was thinking Japanese. I found a lovely little place that I hear serves the sweetest fugu in all New York.”

“I thought you said you’d never eaten fugu.”

“And that was the truth: I never have. This will be my first time. But you didn’t ask if I’d ever heard about it. Of course I had. For Thrush agents, tetrodotoxin is practically standard equipment.”

Solo made a sound deep in his throat. There was no besting her, so he wouldn’t try. He finished the apple and tossed it into a nearby waste can. “All right. Dinner it is. But afterward, could we do without the scarves, please?”

“Not even one?” Angelique tittered. “After all, having sex with you is also a little like eating fugu, too.”

“Oh, and I thought you trusted me,” Solo said with a sly smile.

“That depends upon where you expect me to wear my earrings.” She passed him her car keys. “We’ll see.”

Keys in hand, he drew her into a tight embrace and kissed her full on the mouth. “See?” he said when the kiss ended. “I can be _very_ sweet.”

Angelique smiled crookedly. “Yes, darling, I know. And that’s what makes you so dangerous.” She shivered under her fur. “Ooooh, just like fugu. I think I can feel that tingle already.”


End file.
